These Hands
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: Clint and Bucky take turns ambling down memory lane. It's not entirely unpleasant.


These Hands

Clint is playing with his metal hand. In a post-sex haze, Bucky isn't bothered, watching through half-open eyes as Clint idly bends and flexes the index finger. He can feel the digit being moved, the plates sliding together soundlessly, but Clint's fingertips are just faint pressure sensations. It makes Bucky a little sad, though he's long accepted that that's all he'll ever get from his metal limb. Thing is, he likes Clint playing with him like this - and he likes being able to feel skin on skin.

"There was a girl in the circus," Clint says, "a retired gymnast, she helped out with the equipment and training - and she had a kid, this little baby, and everyone loved him. Could've gotten away with anything if he'd been able do more than poop and toddle. Anyway - so this little guy starts teething, yeah? And suddenly nobody wants to go near him, cause the thing he goes to chew on is people's fingers."

Bucky smiles. Clint doesn't see it, of course, too absorbed with the hand and playing storyteller.

"We tried everything we could to make him stop. We'd give him toys, juggling clubs, an arrow or two - Barney even gave him a dog bone, but the kid wasn't interested if someone else's fingers were in reach. And then Maloney, our lion tamer, has an idea: he gives the boy to our Metal Man. It's genius, right? 'Cause Donovan's got two metal hands, and he's quite a chilled-out kinda guy. He ain't gonna mind fingers he can't feel getting chewed on. Gives him something to do when he's not on stage, and saves our fingers."

"You tryin' to say you wanna chew my fingers or somethin'?"

Clint snorts. "Nah. Just remembering."

Bucky nods. "'S a nice story." Clint hums. "You don't often tell many of those." That gets him a raised eyebrow, and Bucky rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm the same, I know. What can I say?" He reclaims his hand. "I didn't have a circus to run to."

"There's gotta be something you remember fondly," Clint says, moving himself up to Bucky's shoulder. He folds his arms under his chin, looking up through his lashes.

Allowing himself a moment of appreciation, Bucky smirks half-heartedly. "I got plenty of fond memories."

With a slight chuckle, Clint says, "I know - those are my memories too. So it doesn't count. 20th Century or nothing, gramps."

Bucky relents. He carefully takes down his mental walls, pushing through the worst of what the cube returned to him until snippets of good began to show, golden among the red and the blue. That's one thing he has to be grateful for, he's come to realise; "Remember who you are," Steve had said, and Bucky did.

"There was one night, not long after my mom died," he begins, smiling up at the ceiling. "Dad had the afternoon off from training, and when my sister and I came home from school he was there waiting for us. Complete surprise, neither of us knew. Rebecca practically squealed the whole fort down, she was so happy. We didn't get to see him much, so having him home early was like a second Christmas to us. And that time especially - 'cause he bought us a gift." He grins. "Bagatelle."

"Bagawhat?"

"Bagatelle. It's like pinball, but without the flippers and the lights and the noises. God, it was the best thing we'd ever had. We played with it the whole evening, all three of us, and Dad had a chicken pie from one of the other guys' wives, and he let Becca stay up past her bedtime, then he let me try a bit of whiskey before I went to sleep." He laughs briefly. "I hated it, though I tried not to let it show. He probably knew." Closing his eyes, Bucky sinks deeper into the memory, recalling the sense of tiredness so strong he could hardly keep his eyes open, as much as he'd wanted to. (When he told Steve he remembered everything, he meant everything.)

Clint's murmur brings him back to the present. "He sounds like a great dad."

"He bought us the game because he was going on a week-long op the morning after." Bucky opens his eyes, tilts his head to meet Clint's gaze, and twists his lips into something like smile. "But yeah. He was great." What would he think of Bucky now, though?

"I bet he'd be proud of you," Clint says as if reading his mind, moving an arm so he can trail his fingers through Bucky's hairline.

"Would he?" Truly?

Clint nods. "I mean, from what I've heard of him, anyway. Obviously, you know him better, but…"

"The last time we spoke he said he was disappointed in me."

"And the last time I saw Barney he lied to me. Big time. But would I trust him to watch my back in a fight? Hell yeah."

Sighing, Bucky asks, "What are you trying to say, Clint?"

He stays quiet for a moment, his expression shaped into that thoughtful countenance that people so rarely notice. They think so little of the human with a bow and arrow among gods and super soldiers, a fact that infuriates Bucky on a regular basis. "What I'm trying to tell you," he says slowly, "is that you're a better person than you think, Bucky Barnes, both in your eyes and the eyes of others. Sure, you've been part of some awful shit, but we've all done our fair share of conscience-jerking, keep-you-up-at-night activities. The people we help? The ones who look to us in times of danger? They don't see all that. They see someone capable of helping them, and someone willing to risk their life doing so. If you ask me - on a good day, mind - I'd say that's just part of being a hero: living with the bad you've done, and focusing on the good."

Why people ever put 'Clint Barton' and 'useless' in the same sentence is something Bucky will never understand. He reaches over to trace a finger down Clint's jawline (one that can feel, one that tells him Clint is real and here and perfect), and tugs gently on his chin to pull him into a kiss, tender with gratitude. At least, he thinks distantly, cupping Clint's jaw in his palm, he isn't Donovan; one bad hand he can live with when he has someone to remind him what his good hand can do.

* * *

 **AN:** In case it wasn't obvious, this is a 616/comic-verse, because I prefer those backstories to the MCU ones (what little we have to go off, anyway). Also, bagatelle is a great game - my brother and I used to plead our Grandma to get it out for us, and we'd have a small tournament with her and our mum. I think it was one my Grandpa made himself though, so I've no idea whether the game is still in production or not. But it is actually a game, is what I'm getting at... ;-)


End file.
